


The Confidant

by Carcajou



Series: Watts is a good friend [2]
Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: Autistic Llewellyn Watts, BAMF Louise Cherry, Edwardian Period, Jewish Llewellyn Watts, Love Confessions, M/M, Period Typical Bigotry, Queer Llewellyn Watts, Secret Relationship, Trust Issues, Understandably, Watts Has Issues, i guess this is basically canon now huh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29103831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carcajou/pseuds/Carcajou
Summary: Watts is struggling with the secret of his relationship, and the confusing experience of being cared for. Louise Cherry is determined to get to the bottom of her friend's suspicious behaviour.
Relationships: Jack Walker/Llewellyn Watts, Llewellyn Watts & Louise Cherry
Series: Watts is a good friend [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2127282
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	1. Llewellyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Louise has an announcement, and Llewellyn tries not to say the wrong thing.

“Will there be food?”

“I’ve just invited you to the most luxurious, palatial hotel in Toronto, and all you can think of is your stomach.”

“It’s hardly a celebration if there is no refreshment.” Llewellyn Watts leaned back in his chair, sporting an easy grin as he teased his friend. “What exactly are we celebrating?”

“You’ll just have to wait to find out!” Louise Cherry exclaimed from the telephone receiver. She sounded absolutely thrilled. “Don’t be late! You won’t believe what I had to do to secure a last-minute reservation.”

“Alright, I’ll see you this evening.” Llewellyn hung up the receiver on its hook, and he suddenly became aware that his conversation had not been private. To be fair, it was a quiet morning in the station house, and Watts did tend to project his voice. Not to mention that his desk was situated in the middle of the bullpen—surrounded by curious constables.

“Big plans for tonight, sir?” George Crabtree said casually, one corner of his mouth quirked up.

A constable across the room made a raucous hooting noise. Several of the men laughed, and Constable Higgins crowed, “The detective has got a _lady friend_!”

“No, no big plans.” Llewellyn could not stand to look anyone in the eye. He stood up rigidly and mumbled some excuse to leave the building.

Outside, he tucked himself in a deserted alleyway and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He tried to rationalize to himself that the constables were not maliciously mocking him—this was not Station House One. Nor could they possibly know that Watts’ lady _friend_ was, in fact, just that.

Because he was very much enjoying the company of a handsome butcher.

As Llewellyn was trying to work up the courage to go back to work, George discovered his hiding spot.

“Oh Detective! I’m glad I found you.” George rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry for drawing attention to you back there. I heard some of your call, and I thought—but I shouldn’t have brought it up in front of all the chaps.”

“It’s alright, my reaction was disproportionate. You didn’t say anything incriminating.” Llewellyn hunched over and scuffed at the ground with the edge of his shoes. “I can see how the men would find it funny that I have a sweetheart of any kind, even a lady.”

“What? No, we weren’t laughing at you—I mean not for that!” George said. “It was, moreso, seeing you smiling at the telephone, and then you made that comment about the food—it was _just_ like you—in a good way.”

“Oh.” The explanation surprised him, but if George said so, then it must be true. “I do have big plans tonight. But it’s not… what you’re thinking. I’m meeting Louise Cherry at the King Edward Hotel.”

“Good heavens! Why?”

“She has some sort of announcement. She sounded pleased, so I suspect she’s writing an important exclusive.”

George kneaded his hands together, as he often did when he was holding back his opinion. “Oh, I see.”

Llewellyn felt a smidge guilty; he knew that the topic of Louise was discomfiting to George. Perhaps it was selfish of him. But he also believed that, if George could talk to her openly and without prejudice, he’d see all the qualities that made Louise so amazing.

Suffice it to say, Llewellyn cared deeply for them both, and it was no easy task to navigate their hostile rivalry.

“I know you have some reservations about her, but you have to admire her tenacity and dedication to her work.” Llewellyn suggested hopefully.

“But that’s just it, all she cares about is her career! She’ll do anything for a good story—no consideration for the lives ruined along the way.” George shook his head. “You can’t trust her, Watts.”

“That has not been my experience. In fact, she’s been quite considerate of my wellbeing—and confidentiality, come to think of it. Besides, I thought you appreciated women with gumption, George?”

“I did—I mean I _do_.” Crabtree rubbed at his chin as he thought. “But surely, you’ve heard about her deceptions and dishonesties, not to mention the time she reported that Detective Murdoch was a murderer!”

“He was the primary suspect—I know, I know, wrongfully so.” Llewellyn put up his hands before George could argue himself hoarse about Murdoch’s endless virtues. The man certainly was loyal.

George sighed. “I just don’t understand how you can be friends with her.”

Llewellyn took a deep breath and held it. “I don’t disagree that she has made mistakes in the past.” He let out his breath. “But am I really fit to judge someone at their worst moments? Am I to discard them on the basis of deeds they regret and have worked to rectify? I trust Louise, even with some personal information, and—"

“Sir, you haven’t!” Wide-eyed, George whispered, “You haven’t told her—Louise knows about your… money troubles?”

“Hm?” Llewellyn could read the worry in his friend’s features; it was an unfamiliar feeling, to be causing someone else to worry after his safety. “Oh, no not that. But she has kept my jewish identity to herself, and I have found her worthy of that trust.”

George massaged the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He muttered something indiscernible and then declared, “I would not tell her, if I were you.” 

Llewellyn considered it. In his head, he has imagined telling Louise about Jack. He would share all the bright, perfect things that Jack evokes in him. Jack was so wonderful and worth talking about—Llewellyn could go on for hours.

But a larger, more fearful part of his mind ruled his actions. Their safety must take the priority. Llewellyn could not stand the thought of causing Jack to suffer.

“You’re probably right.” Llewellyn clapped George on the shoulder. “As you often are, about these things.”

\---

The King Edward Hotel was infinitely worse than George had described. The lobby was a ghastly bright space crowded with society people—their snooty voices bouncing off the marble floors creating quite a din. The finely clad bodies, large leather benches, and decorative palm planters packed throughout presented difficult obstacles.

Llewellyn Watts felt out of place. He was on high alert the entire time he passed through, to make sure that he did not unwittingly bump into a person or a palm.

The dining hall was even more packed than the lobby. There was an excellent music ensemble serenading the diners. It almost made up for the fact that the room somehow managed to ruin the colour green.

Miss Cherry was already seated, waiting for him.

“Oh, finally, you’re here!” Louise grinned at him so widely that Llewellyn could not help but smile back. “Hurry, pick a wine so we can toast.”

This was precisely the sort of situation Llewellyn dreamed of—choosing a bottle from a long list of excellent options.

After placing an order with the waiter, Llewellyn asked the obvious question, “What’s the big news?”

Louise giggled. Her face lit up with excitement and she _giggled_. “Not yet! Oh I’ve been burning to tell someone all day!”

Picking up on the implication, Llewellyn said, “I’m the first person you’re telling?”

“Well, I wrote a letter to Annabeth this morning—she’s the one who lives in the Northwest Territories—but you are the first person I’m telling aloud.”

Llewellyn tucked his chin against his chest, overcome with a little jolt of pride and happiness. It was nice to be considered important.

Once the wine had arrived and been poured, Miss Cherry raised her glass energetically. Llewellyn followed suit.

“I’m getting married!” Louise announced, cackling madly at Llewellyn’s shocked expression. “I should have brought my camera. You practically fell off your chair!”

“Congratulations.” Llewellyn managed to croak. He swilled his wine and cleared his throat. “Who’s the special man?”

“Teddy, of course!” Her face softened. “He’s such a romantic. He had a whole speech written out. He even got teary-eyed at the end.”

Llewellyn nodded. “Oof I can imagine. This is the businessman, correct?”

“Yes, oh he’s such a wonderful man!” Miss Cherry giggled again. “He’s quite handsome, well-mannered, and considerate. Oh and you’ll love this—he’s entirely supportive of my career! Teddy even thinks I should keep my last name, for the branding you know.”

Llewellyn propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his hands. “Yes, absolutely, the branding.”

“Most men are entirely intimidated by a successful woman. In fact, Teddy’s the first beau who was encouraging of my ambition—well, second, I suppose.” Louise frowned slightly. “But Teddy is much more reliable than George was.”

“Ah, well, that’s good. And yet,” Llewellyn scratched at his chin. “Don’t you think it’s a little soon for all this?”

“I don’t think so, but we’re waiting to marry next summer anyway, so we’ll have plenty of time to prepare. And neither of us want a showy ceremony—just something intimate and sweet.”

Llewellyn still wondered whether this courtship was moving too fast, but clearly Louise was happy. “I’m glad you’ve found such a good match.”

“Thank you.” Louise tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. “It’s still a ways away, but I hope you’ll come.”

“Of course. I would be honoured.” Llewellyn patted Louise on the shoulder and she beamed up at him in return.

“You know, you could bring your sweetheart too.”

For a brief moment, Llewellyn pictured it—Jack dressed up in a well-fitted suit, his freckles luminous on a summer wedding day, squeezing his arm affectionately in public.

But that was not possible. And that was not what Louise meant.

Llewellyn feigned confusion. “What sweetheart?”

“You’re a terrible liar. And you’ve been entirely besotted these past months.” Louise smirked. “Do tell, who is this mystery woman who has captured Llewellyn Watts’ heart and soul?”

“I—I don’t—”

“Oh come now, you can tell me.” Louise leaned her head in closer and lowered her voice. “I swear I won’t broadcast it to all my readers.” She gave a wry smile, gently teasing.

“It isn’t that, I’m…” Llewellyn could not outright lie to his friend, so he settled on a smaller truth. “Well, it’s a fairly recent development, and I don’t want to speak too soon, only for things to fall apart tomorrow.”

“Oh, are you having problems?”

“No, at least not that I know of.” Llewellyn shuffled in his seat.

“And when you say recent, you mean…”

“About three months. Although, it feels longer than that.” Each moment with Jack has felt precious and precarious, and Llewellyn doesn’t know when they will end.

“So, who is she?”

Llewellyn opened and shut his mouth. He wanted to tell her, he wanted to gush about all the small things he was coming to know about Jack. The way his eyes crinkled with his subtle smiles, the neatly wrapped lunches in the mornings, the soothing brush of his fingers in Llewellyn’s hair when they got to be alone together.

Louise stared at him expectantly, and Llewellyn fumbled with the menu.

“Well, what do we have here?”

\---

Llewellyn practically fell into Jack arm’s as soon as he opened the door.

“Oh! Are you alright?” Jack supported him with one arm and shut the door behind him.

“I hate the King Edward.”

“Treasonous.”

“Louise took me there for supper. They ruined green. Green, Jack!”

Jack chuckled, his hands steadying Llewellyn’s hips, their faces just inches apart. “Someone’s well into his cups.”

“We couldn’t leave without finishing the bottle.” Llewellyn explained. He neglected to mention that he drank most of it. And he had also ordered an extra glass of white, at Louise’s suggestion. She seemed to think the alcohol would loosen his tongue—rather, it just made him more morose and unsteady on his feet.

Llewellyn tightened his grip on the front of Jack’s shirt. He was only wearing a thin undershirt and his chestnut hair was down. Llewellyn wasn’t used to seeing him so casual, relaxed. He felt guilty, intruding on Jack’s peaceful evening with his sad drunken-ness.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have barged in.”

“It’s no trouble at all. I like having you around, Llewellyn.” Jack smiled down at him, as if it were effortless to say those most beautiful words, as if it were effortless to be around him.

Unable to keep looking in his eyes, Llewellyn hunched forward and rested his forehead on Jack’s chest. He had been struggling with the question all evening. He had no one else to ask—no one who would understand and answer honestly. Except Jack.

“Does it get easier?”

“Does what get easier?”

“The hiding.” Llewellyn hated that he was putting this burdensome anxiety on Jack. “Louise asked about you. Or not you. Who she thinks you are. She wants me to bring my sweetheart to the wedding. And I know it’s not possible, and I know I need to protect you, but I still—I almost told her. I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“ _Oh Llewellyn_.” Jack rubbed his back. “I didn’t know this was weighing on you. You did nothing wrong, okay.”

Trying to hold back his tears, Llewellyn buried his face in his hand, still gripping Jack’s shirt for balance.

“You know you’re allowed to talk to your friends, right? I mean it’s your decision of course, but if you trust them and you need someone to talk to, you can test the waters and see how it goes.”

“How can I do that without putting both of us in danger?” Llewellyn argued, a hint of a childish frustration in his voice.

“There’s a few ways. I like to bring up Oscar Wilde’s trial and measure the reaction.”

“That works?”

“Sometimes.” Jack gently moved Llewellyn’s head onto his shoulder, holding him with warmth. “I don’t think we can go to a wedding together, but there are other places we can go. Aldous is still dying to meet you, and there’s pubs and other public places. Although we’ll have to stay away from the King Edward, _apparently_.”

Jack’s teasing was fond and patient—he wasn’t upset. Llewellyn melted into the hug. “I’m overreacting.”

“Not at all. I know this is fairly new to you.”

“I’m a quick study.” Llewellyn quipped.

“Lucky for me.” Jack held him tighter against his chest and breathed in deep. “Mmm you smell good. Are you wearing perfume?”

Llewellyn blushed. “Just a little. I didn’t want to embarrass Louise in front of Toronto’s upper crust.” He didn’t own any perfume, but he had stopped at the haberdashery and used a random sample. Perhaps he should go back and buy it—if Jack liked it. “You like it?”

Jack hummed in response, pressing his face into the crook of Llewellyn’s neck. For his part, Llewellyn ran his hands up his bare arms, basking in the feeling of being held so securely—Jack’s arms were solidly built and Llewellyn knew for a fact they could lift him.

His breath hot against his neck, Jack pressed a small kiss to Llewellyn’s collar bone. Without meaning to, Llewellyn gasped.

“That—I—that was just a surprise.” Llewellyn stumbled through his words, embarrassed by his body’s intense reactions.

“I like surprises.” Jack kissed his neck again, and Llewellyn’s knees buckled and would have given out completely if not for Jack’s support. Jack trailed slow kisses up to his chin, cupping his face and looking into his eyes before kissing him properly.

Llewellyn lost all sense of time. He was enjoying the simple, sensual moment pressed up against Jack’s door, his worries and fears forgotten.

Until Jack pulled away and breathed out, “I love you.”

Doubt and panic flooded his brain. He didn’t know what he should say; he hadn’t even considered naming his feelings for Jack, fragile and uncharted as they were. Would it be worse not to return the sentiment, or to parrot those words without certainty? But the longer he went without saying anything, the more upset Jack would be—

“I should go.” Llewellyn blurted out.


	2. Louise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Louise uncovers a secret she should have left alone, and Llewellyn is confused about his feelings and afraid of a cruel world.
> 
> Content warning: there is a brief mention of Watts being put in a non-consensual physical situation with another non-consenting person.

Llewellyn Watts was acting suspicious. He clearly had a sweetheart. But any time that Louise tried to ask him about her, Llewellyn would compulsively scratch himself and stare off into space.

These were his tells. He was confused and scared. The former, intriguing. The latter, concerning.

And so when she saw his distinctive figure hurrying up Bloor Street, Louise fell in step behind him. If he wouldn’t explain it to her, then she was more than capable of doing her own research.

Following at a distance, Louise watched him go into Robin’s Haberdashery; she decided to wait for him outside. He was in and out quickly. He tucked a bottle—cologne perhaps—into his jacket and continued down the street.

His next stop was the florist.

“Gotcha.” Louise murmured in satisfaction. Now she was definitely on the right track. Llewellyn would lead her right to his sweetheart.

Watts fussed over the selection of bouquets, touching and smelling absolutely everything. After chatting with the shopkeeper, he finally settled on a mixed bouquet: daisies and purple hyacinths tucked amongst green fern fronds.

Louise noted the selection in her journal; purple hyacinths were a classic apology flower, but she needed to look up the others. She also jotted down that he put them in a large bag–-for carrying a long distance? Or for hiding them?

After tailing her friend for several blocks, Louise was surprised when Watts froze. He wasn’t waiting to go into a building. He wasn’t looking at anyone, just staring off in the distance—his tell for confusing and intense emotions. Hunched over, alone on the sidewalk, he seemed quite small.

For the first time, Louise felt a twinge of guilt for what she was doing. Whatever was going on with him, Llewellyn had not asked for her help. Her involvement might further complicate matters.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Watts started moving again and she followed. He turned the corner and slipped into an apartment building, Louise ten steps behind him.

He went up to the third floor. Louise had to stay hidden in the stairwell, so she did not get a clear view of which room he entered. Still, she could write down the apartment numbers in that section.

Heading back down to the lobby, Louise noted that the building appeared to be well-maintained and comfortable—though a touch less so than her own living situation. The lobby was simple, but clean at least. The mail slots were well marked with names and room numbers.

While she was jotting down the relevant names, one name in particular caught her eye.

_#13 – Ms. F. Newsome_

\---

Louise spotted him walking down the sidewalk, still in uniform. She pulled up to the curb so quickly that he _jumped_.

Smirking, Louise pushed her driving goggles up onto her forehead and shut off the rumbling engine of her motorcar. “Constable Crabtree!”

“Good heavens!” George clutched at his chest. “Louise, you could have killed me! You really should watch where you’re going!”

"Oh relax!" Louise had stopped well before getting that close to him. Honestly, George could be _so_ melodramatic. She hopped out of her motorcar. “Come on, let's find a quiet spot.”

George went bug-eyed. “What, why?”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing nefarious. We just need to have a chat.”

“Well, I’m off the clock Miss Cherry, but you’re free to—”

“It’s about Llewellyn.”

After a moment scrutinizing her, George sighed. “Oh alright then.”

Louise led them into a nearby alley. Pulling off her red leather driving gloves, Louise couldn’t help but show off her engagement ring.

George noticed. “What’s that?”

“Surely you’ve seen a ring before George?” Louise teased. “Watts didn’t tell you I got engaged?” Louise knew the answer—she had asked Llewellyn not to spread the news around, after all. But she could allow herself the pettiness, just as a treat to herself.

“We don’t spend our time gossiping about you.” George cleared his throat and unclipped his helmet. “But, uh, congratulations I suppose.”

“Thank you, George.” Louise tucked her gloves in her handbag. “I hear that you’ve been busy as well. Congratulations on the book. Your third published one, if I’m not mistaken.”

“What, is it so surprising?” He grumbled, crossing his arms with his helmet under one elbow.

Louise had meant it sincerely. His book was well-written if a bit overly emotional. Not that she was going to admit to reading the damn thing.

Even though George was infuriating, he was a good source for her ‘research’. A part of Louise hoped that her information was wrong. Perhaps George had already broken things off with this Effie girl, and allowed an appropriate amount of time for Llewellyn to make a move. That would make all this so much simpler.

“No it's not _surprising_. Although I did also hear that you had some _help_. A… Miss Newsome?”

“Effie didn’t write it for me!” George protested, his voice echoing off the bricks. He took a breath and lowered his voice. “Miss Newsome was very supportive of my writing, even at times more so than I was, but she has too much integrity to let someone else take credit for her work.”

“Well don’t you two make the perfect couple.” Louise regretted it as soon as the words left her mouth. Based on the story she was piecing together, George Crabtree was in for a devastating betrayal. Even he didn’t deserve that.

George sighed, his hand gesturing in exasperation. “Why did you seek me out, Louise? What’s this about Watts?”

Taking a moment to collect her thoughts, Louise tested the waters. “I’m concerned about him. He’s been acting strange lately. Have you noticed?”

“Strange? Well, no I don’t think so.” He frowned, in what seemed like genuine confusion. “Strange how?”

“Suspicious. _Shifty_. As if he’s hiding something.” Louise got just the reaction she was expecting. George tensed and glanced away. He wasn’t completely oblivious then. “Do you know he has a sweetheart?”

George shifted his stance, looking behind him nervously. “I don’t make it my business to go snooping in other people’s personal lives.”

It was supposed to be a jab at her, but Louise didn’t feel the sting of it. _Poor, clueless George._

“Have you ever met her, though? Do you even know who she is?” Louise prodded.

“Watts is very private about that sort of thing.” He toed at a rubbish bin in the alley, not meeting her eye. “But everyone is entitled to their privacy. It doesn’t mean he’s doing anything wrong. And if you were truly his friend, you would respect that.”

“But what if he needs someone to _help_ him?”

“He’s a grown man, for pete’s sake, I’m sure he can handle it.”

“He’s making a mistake!” Louise threw her hands up in the air, tired of talking in circles. “He’s one of the smartest, kindest—no, he is the kindest man I know. And at first I couldn’t believe it, not from him, he’s too loyal. But he’s clearly blinded by love, or he’s just as much a fool as—” Louise cut herself off.

She couldn’t quite read the expression on George’s face. There was a hurt and an anger there. Perhaps he was already catching on.

“Llewellyn went to an apartment building on Jarvis yesterday, for _a late night visit_.” Louise took a breath. “The woman he was sneaking around with was Miss Newsome.”

Pressing a hand to his mouth, George made a strangled noise that she first mistook for a sob. But then he erupted into a burst of laughter.

“I’m serious! I saw him—”

“And they say I have quite the imagination!” George rubbed at his face, still smirking. “Effie isn’t having an affair with Detective Watts.”

“He brought her flowers!”

George shook his head. “No you’ve got it wrong. He came over to have dinner with us yesterday evening. He got flowers for the table.”

“This doesn’t make sense.” Louise couldn’t tell for sure whether he was lying; but what reason would he have to lie? Was it possible that she was so biased against George’s latest sweetheart, that she had invented this entire tryst? “But Llewellyn—”

“I’ve met his sweetheart.” George’s face was flushed but determined. “Watts is happy, he’s been practically glowing these past weeks, and he deserves it. And he deserves his privacy.”

George turned to leave, then added. “You know Miss Cherry, if you spent less time spying on your friends, they might trust you more.”

\---

Louise was not spying. She just happened to be walking down the street, minding her own business, when she saw him. Llewellyn was hard to miss, his peculiar angular frame hunched in on himself, his green suit modern but fashionable. He came out of the store, blinking in the bright midday light.

She tried to cross the street to catch him, but she had to wait for a carriage to pass by, and he was gone by the time she reached the spot.

He had come out of a butchery. Odd, because the sign on the door said, ‘Out to Lunch.’ Louise also hadn’t noticed him carrying any packages or bags. Was Llewellyn even allowed to buy from a gentile butcher? Not that she knew much about it—

 _I’m meddling again._ Louise thought to herself. She chewed the inside of her cheek and forced herself to continue her way to work.

She only made it halfway down the block before she stopped again.

_The name on the sign. I know it from somewhere._

Pulling out her notebook from her handbag, she flipped back by a few pages. The names from the apartment building.

_#15 – Mr. J. Walker_

\---

“I’ll be with you in just one moment!”

Louise stood stiffly at the front door. Coming in had been an impulse decision. She didn’t know what she was hoping for—what she could expect to get from this man.

A man appeared from the back room, carrying a tray laden with various cuts of beef. He was dressed well, for a man in his profession—a remarkably clean shirt and vest, under his apron. His brown hair was neatly combed to the side, his face was freshly shaven, and he had nary a bump or scar marring his pretty features. He took care of himself.

Louise had not pictured Jack Walker like this.

“Sorry for the wait, what can I—” The butcher looked up at her and blinked in recognition. A hint of worry in his eyes, and then back to a cool professionalism. He smiled at her and said, “You probably get this a lot, but you wouldn’t happen to be a reporter for the _Toronto Telegraph_ , would you?”

Louise smiled with just the lower part of her face, sinking into her own public persona. “I am she. Louise Cherry.”

Louise offered her hand, and to his credit the butcher didn’t scoff at it and shook it firmly. “Jack Walker. How can I help you, Miss Cherry?”

“I was wondering…” Louise glanced around the shop. She took a few casual steps back, as if she were perusing, but she just needed the space to think away from the man. “I have a jewish friend, and I’m curious whether you’d have anything for him.”

The butcher laid his hands flat on the counter, standing tall and broad-shouldered. He seemed outwardly confident—his smooth face neutral at her question.

“Well, that depends. We’re not a kosher establishment, of course. I could suggest a fine butcher in the Ward. Or, I also keep some of his chicken and lamb in stock, since I have a few Jewish customers.”

“Oh that’s very considerate of you. But now that I think of it, perhaps I should wait to ask my friend what he’d prefer.” She gave the butcher a meaningful look. “He surprises me sometimes.”

There was a brief hint of gentleness in Mr. Walker’s tone. “Of course, I understand.”

Louise couldn’t be sure if he was truly understanding her. She wasn’t entirely sure that her suspicions were correct. But she couldn’t very well interrogate the man, whether he was just an acquaintance of Llewellyn’s or… well something else.

George was right; Llewellyn deserved better than that.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Walker. I hope I’ll be back soon.”

\---

“You seem to have something on your mind.”

“Hm?” Llewellyn glanced over. “What do you mean?”

“Well for starters, it’s not like you to so woefully neglect your ice cream.” Louise pointed to his rapidly-disappearing cone, drips running over his knuckles and pooling on the dirt below.

“Oh no.” Watts seemed startled, as if he hadn’t noticed the ice cream steadily melting for the past two minutes. He set to work cleaning up the sides of his cone with loud slurping.

Sitting on the park bench beside him, Louise tsked and dabbed her handkerchief to tidy him up. “This is a mess.”

“Has anyone said, ‘I love you’ to you before?”

Louise snorted, “You don’t need to butter me up just to wipe ice cream off of you.”

“No, I mean in a romantic setting. With someone … you were fond of.” Llewellyn was crouched over his knees, staring up at her through his lashes as he finished off his cone.

“Oh, you’re serious.” Louise sat up. “Well yes, there were a few men before I found Teddy. Maybe two, that were significant enough to progress to that stage.” She rolled her eyes. “And obviously I’m not counting the silly boys from my schooldays.”

“And what would you say? In response?”

Louise was slowly catching on to what Llewellyn was asking. “You mean, the first time they said it, right?” Llewellyn nodded, so wide eyed and attentive it was endearing. “To be honest, in my experience the woman usually says it first. Or the man will only say it because he wants something. There’s only been one man who disrupted that pattern.”

“Teddy?” Llewellyn asked.

“No, it was George Crabtree.” Louise smoothed out the fabric of her dress for a distraction. “Caught me rather off guard—I was right in the middle of telling him about the time my childhood dog got bit in the face by a rat and I had to carry her up three flights of stairs to our apartment.”

Llewellyn pointed a finger at her. “I want to hear that story, after this talk of romance. So what did you say?”

“Say? I’m more of a woman of action.” She smirked at her friend. “I kissed him. And, when we parted ways later that evening, I reciprocated his feelings.” Louise watched the way her friend’s face fell into deep thought. “Why do you ask?”

“My sweetheart made a declaration of love a few days ago. I fled in a panic. And before you say it—” he groaned and scuffed his shoes in the grass. “I know it was a poor response.”

“You don’t reciprocate the feelings?”

“That’s not—I don’t—how do I know?” Llewellyn’s voice pitched high, and his fingers were picking furiously at the wooden boards of their bench. It seemed like a recipe for splinters, but Louise couldn’t interject in the rapid onslaught of thoughts.

“How can I know what I feel is not just the desire to be desired? Or worse, the relief of not being alone?” Llewellyn was balancing his weight on the palms of his hands, and his knuckles going white. “When—when I heard that declaration of love, in the moment, all I could feel—I couldn’t feel. Just a vague, anxious, foreboding sense of numbness. I should feel—other people would feel happy. What if I—can’t—shouldn’t—”

Llewellyn jumped up to his feet, “I shouldn’t have bothered you. I need to go.”

Louise stood up. There was no way in hell she was letting her friend run off alone now. “You’re _not_ bothering me. And we’re not finished.”

The poor man was practically vibrating out of his plaid jacket. “I need to walk. Clear my head.”

In a slow, cautious movement, Louise touched his elbow. “Llewellyn. Let me walk with you. Okay?”

He blinked for a moment, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and gave one solid nod.

Watts tore up the path, his legs moving stiffly and his upper body leaning forward as if he were fighting an invisible wind. He took the path that went along the Don. Because of the dry summer they were having, the river flowed lazily and would have made a lovely backdrop for a stroll. But Llewellyn had other ideas.

“I forgot you’re a runner.” Louise huffed, one hand tugging her dress up so she didn’t faceplant in the dirt.

“Am I walking fast?” Llewellyn looked over as if this were a perfectly reasonable pace.

She rolled her eyes, gesturing at her practical-but-still-heeled shoes. After they slowed down and she caught her breath, Louise tried to figure out what to say.

“Did I ever tell you about the man who threatened to kill himself because I didn’t love him back?”

Llewellyn slowed to a snail’s pace, staring at her in horror. “No?!”

“Oh yes, well, that happened.” Louise chewed the inside of her cheek at the bitter memories. “He worked at the Telegraph, and he somehow decided that the way to get my attention was to send me semi-threatening notes and put a gun to his head. He didn’t die, I think he went to get his head checked, but it was disturbing to say the least.”

“That’s awful.” Llewellyn scratched at his face. “I can’t imagine being in your place. I’m not sure I could have refused him.”

“Just because a man says he loves you, it doesn’t mean you need feel the same way. And if the rejection hurts him, that’s _not_ your fault.” Louise mumbled as an afterthought, “Anyone who says otherwise is a pin-head.”

Llewellyn hummed thoughtfully, pausing to pick a cone off a cedar hedge.

“I find it difficult to accept. The direct proclamation of love.” Llewellyn walked with his head down, staring at the bit of cedar in his fingers. “And then I suppose I feel guilt for being so distrustful of my sweetheart.”

“Do you think it’s a lie?”

“No. No. It’s not.” Llewellyn sighed. “Rationally I know that. But it was a common occurrence when I was growing up, especially for my brothers. Fake love letters, set up confessions, toying with feelings—all for some unfunny joke.”

Louise nodded grimly, “Kids can be cruel.”

“But then, even just a few years ago when I was promoted to detective, there was an incident.” Llewellyn frowned. “And those were all _adults_.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I moved up the ranks quite quickly, so there was some animosity from the other constables, at Station House 1 at least. A few of them locked me in a cell with a prostitute. They had—or were offering—to let her out if she—in front of them. As in, they were going to _watch_. They said they were doing me a favour.” Llewellyn cringed.

Louise gritted her teeth. “What are their names?” She was going to tear those vermin apart.

“They eventually let me out. I assumed it was something they did to all the new detectives. But it turned out they just did not like me.”

She stopped in the middle of the path, Llewellyn turning back to her with raised eyebrows. She could imagine those constables laughing and jeering at him. No wonder her friend expected the worst. No wonder he was so uncertain about his relationship.

“You didn’t deserve that. Not from your coworkers, not from _anyone_. Whoever your sweetheart is, whatever they may tell you…” Louise gripped the edge of Watts’ sleeve. “You deserve to be with someone _who deserves you_. Okay?”

Her tone may have ventured onto the side of too intense, but she felt like she was going to start screaming if she had to listen to another moment of this.

Llewellyn stared back at her and swallowed thickly. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She breathed out, releasing his arm. “Sorry for getting so worked up. I think I’ve become quite fond of you. As friends.”

“I—you—I also.” He fumbled with the words but ended with a shy smile.

Louise felt now was as good a time as any to come clean. “I have to confess that I made some rather dubious decisions this week. Prime among them was following you on Wednesday evening.”

“You—what?”

“I was just curious, and then I thought you might be having an affair with Miss Newsome—”

“ _Effie Newsome_? But George—”

“I know, I talked to him too.” Louise leaned in closer to Watts, even though there was really no one around to overhear. “And I can understand if you don’t trust me at this point, but I wanted to assure you that from now on I will keep my nose firmly out of your business and my lips sealed shut.”

Llewellyn took a deep breath as he processed all her rapid-fire revelations. “You know, don’t you?”

The subtle confirmation of her suspicion did not feel like a win, in this scenario. _A practicing homosexual detective._ The papers would have a field day. Assuredly none of Llewellyn’s colleagues would stick up for him—other than perhaps George, who had already lied for him.

Careful to avoid saying anything damning, Louise shook her head. “I don’t need to know anything about it.” She added, “But if you wanted to let me in to your confidence—”

“It’s too late for that, apparently.” Watts cut her off.

He seemed on the verge of saying more, but then he drew himself up. “I need to get back to work,” he muttered, spinning on his heel to leave.

“Llewellyn…” She called after him, but he had already veered off the path to cut through the park.

Grimacing to herself, Louise pawed through her handbag until she found her notebook. She started scribbling furiously.

Time for plan B.


	3. Llewellyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which help comes from unexpected sources, and Llewellyn tries to express his feelings.

The bell above the door rang out cheerfully. Jack Walker looked up from his butcher’s block and caught his eye with a barely-there smile.

Llewellyn blinked and looked away, trying to act like any other patron of the shop. He waited until the customer in front of him finished with her purchases and left the two of them alone.

“What can I do you for, _Detective_?” Jack liked to tease him like this, just toeing the line of professionalism and familiarity.

“I have to cancel tonight.” Llewellyn said with no preamble.

“Oh.”

“It’s not that I want to, but Murdoch’s very close to being framed for murder. Again.” Llewellyn rolled his eyes. “I’ve been running around all morning, and I expect I’ll be indisposed for at least the next few days until this is all cleared up.”

“I understand.” Jack busied himself with wiping down his workstation. “Well, I have a bit of a lull at the moment, what do you say to a late lunch?”

Llewellyn rocked on the balls of his feet and considered it. He _was_ hungry. And he did miss Jack, seeing how they had hardly seen each other lately. But— “I’m sorry, I really need to be off, I just wanted to let you know about tonight.” He leaned in, just the counter separating him from his sweetheart. “But once things settle down, I’ll make it up to you.”

“It’s fine.” Jack shrugged, but he was obviously disappointed. “Sounds like an important case. Don’t let me keep you from it.”

The statement felt wrong. His work was important to him, but it didn’t compare with his relationship with Jack—they were not even on the same playing field. Scratching the side of his chin, Llewellyn tried to put his thoughts into words, but his brain was a garbled mess.

\---

Llewellyn threw himself into the investigation. Too many interviews, pages of scribblings, and a thorough timeline of events later, and he had built up a solid case against Murdoch. _It'll sort itself out. Probably._

The inspector told him to deal with the press. Llewellyn was dreading it—one journalist, in particular.

They hadn’t spoken since that day in the park. Llewellyn didn’t know whether they were still friends—or how he would feel about that. But they were both professionals, so he buried his personal feelings and sent word to Louise Cherry.

They met in Murdoch’s office—it wasn’t as if he was using it.

“Detective Watts, you wished to speak with me?” Louise stood at the door. She was wearing a red plaid dress with matching capelet, and a new hat with a striped ribbon around it.

“Ah yes, please come in.” Watts waved her towards the workbench he was occupying.

“Am I to be chewed out for my inconvenient but well-researched reporting again?” Louise stuck out her chin defiantly.

“No, but to be fair…” Llewellyn tapped the afternoon edition of the _Telegraph_. “It seemed like Mr. Fellows did most of the research.”

Louise made an offended sound. “He might have tipped me off, but I verified all his information. I’m not about to put all my stock in one biased-though-highly-persuasive source.”

Unable to hold back, he let the corner of his mouth quirk up. “Isn’t that exactly what you did with the xenophobic anti-immigrant articles last year?”

Dropping her shoulders, Louise looked at him pointedly. “Some of my readers can be quite irritating and self-righteous.” She added bitterly, “And some people are never satisfied no matter what you do.”

“Are we talking about me?” Llewellyn furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head, trying to track the peculiar shifts in the journalist’s body language and tone.

“They made you detective, huh?”

He bristled. “I don’t mock _your_ chosen profession of charlatans and crooks, Miss Cherry.”

They stared at each other in a standoff. Louise sighed, “Listen, can we just … put _all this_ behind us so we can do our jobs?”

“That’s the most rational thing you’ve said up ‘til now.”

Llewellyn pulled out his notebook and recited, “Detective Murdoch has been arrested for the murder of Mr. Huckabee. The Constabulary continues to pursue all avenues of investigation and encourages any one with any information to come forward.” Llewellyn cleared his throat. “I understand you interviewed Ralph Fellows about the case? I don’t suppose you have records or notes—”

“Of course.” Louise clipped open her handbag and pulled out a folder. “I typed up my notes from my meeting with him, as well as with the sources mentioned in my article.”

Llewellyn reached for the folder, only for Miss Cherry to pull it away.

“Can I have that, please.”

She tilted her head at him. “I have a few questions of my own. Seeing as I’m being so helpful…”

Scratching the side of his face, Llewellyn weighed the options. Louise’s notes had proven quite useful in the past. “I suppose I could answer a few things.”

The journalist grinned, pulling out her own notebook and pen. “Is it true Detective Murdoch stole Mr. Huckabee’s lawnmower in the middle of the night?”

“Oof.” Llewellyn squinted. “Let’s not quote anything Murdoch will hold against me afterwards.”

Louise smirked to herself. “It’s probably not even worth mentioning in the papers, not an exciting motive for murder. I just like to picture it.”

\---

He didn’t want to go home. At first, he was just working late, but gradually the station house had quieted and the streets had darkened, and Llewellyn still did not want to go home.

His mind was moving too much—he knew that it would be futile to try to sleep. Rather than coop himself up all alone in his boarding room, Llewellyn stayed at the station house and kept himself occupied with his books. He grabbed a pillow from the Inspector’s office, tangled and re-positioned his lamp, and settled in the empty space under his desk.

It was an old habit, his hunkering down, and perhaps he ought to have outgrown it. But it felt nice.

Llewellyn was so deep in his reading that he did not notice the constable crouch down beside him. At least, not until George touched his shoulder.

“Don’t!” Llewellyn startled, dropping his book and bringing his hands up to protect his face.

“Oh! Gracious—”

“George?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“No it’s alright.” Llewellyn made himself appear more relaxed. He rubbed at the elbow he had hit on the wall of the desk. “Just unexpected.”

“I called out to you, but you didn’t seem to hear.” George surprised him by sitting down on the ground next to him, although not under the desk. “Did you go home at all yesterday?”

“I didn’t.” Llewellyn blinked, taking note of the bluish grey morning light out the window. He hadn’t checked his watch in quite some time; the morning had snuck up on him.

“Did you have the chance to sleep at all?”

“Sleep has proved… elusive.”

George nodded sympathetically. The bags under his eyes suggested he wasn’t fully rested either. “Yeah, I was up early checking in with Louise Cherry. She’s agreed to play along with the scheme. Hopefully it’ll fool Ralph Fellows.”

“It’s a solid plan, George.” Llewellyn patted his shoulder and offered a small smile. “I believe it just might work.”

He sighed. “Yes I suppose there’s nothing to do but wait and see.”

Pulling out his pocket watch, Llewellyn noted that it was still quite early in the morning; their day shift won’t start for another two hours. He might as well try to distract George in the meantime. “Have you had breakfast?”

\---

“Watts, did you… did something happen with Louise Cherry?”

“Hm?” Llewellyn looked up from picking the crumbs off his plate. The fried egg sandwich hadn’t come close to Jack’s, but it was still very satisfying.

Across the small diner table, George tapped his thumbs on his coffee mug. “Well, it’s just, she wrote a favourable piece about my book…”

“Yes, she called it _un-putdownable_.”

“Exactly, and it wasn’t even a necessary part of the article!”

After licking a bit of egg from his finger, Llewellyn squinted at his friend in confusion. “You’re upset that Louise gave a positive review of your book?”

“Not at all. I was downright chuffed. I thanked her earlier, and she said the usual bit about good writing deserving to be recognized. And something about us being friends.” George looked out the window, his face not quite smiling. “She seems different. More open and… happier, somehow.”

Llewellyn shuffled in the hard-backed chair. He was glad that George was mending things with Louise; he couldn’t say he was eager to do the same. “Ah. Well. That’s good.”

George was watching him, his expression tender and intelligent. “I think you were right about Louise. She’s definitely a good person to have in your corner.”

 _And a dangerous person to cross._ Llewellyn thought to himself.

\---

“Bloody hell, you look awful.”

Llewellyn was laying his face down on his desk. He hardly had the energy to raise his head, let alone answer his inspector. “Mhmm.”

It was over 48 hours since his head had last touched a pillow. Except for a moment during the stakeout in Dr. Ogden’s house, when he had managed to curl up in an armchair. But now it was past midnight and Llewellyn was dead on his feet. Or his ass.

The inspector sighed and patted Watts on the shoulder. “It’s been a long day. Go home.”

He wanted nothing more than to go home to Jack. Oh to feel Jack’s fingers carding through his hair and the warmth of his embrace. But it was too late; Jack's building had a curfew. So instead Llewellyn would be sleeping alone in his boarding room. Hardly enough motivation to stand up.

He gestured vaguely at his desk. “Ah, I still have paperwork—"

“Christ, you can barely hold yourself upright—more so than usual.” Brackenreid turned and barked out across the room. “Crabtree! Take Watts home!”

“But, I don’t need—”

“Sir, I’m ready to head out now, if you’d like.” George was indeed dressed to go home, and he nodded encouragingly at Watts. “Your boarding house is on the way for me anyway.”

Lacking any more energy to argue, Llewellyn slipped into his overcoat, grabbed the book he was reading, and squashed his hat onto his head.

“Get some rest, lads. Well done today.”

Llewellyn dipped his head, hardly even registering the words of high praise from the inspector. He struggled to put one foot in front of the other as they left the station house.

“A bit cold tonight, isn’t it?” George remarked.

“Hm, yes, I expect my room will take an eternity to warm up.” The room was drafty, and Llewellyn wouldn’t have another body to steal heat from.

“So, what are you reading?” George pointed at the book in his hand.

“Oh just some poems.”

“Really, what sort?”

“Emile Nelligan, a young poet from Montréal. His work is…” Llewellyn struggled to find the words. “I suppose I could just read a bit, if you want.”

“That sounds lovely, can’t say I’m entirely fluent, although I picked up a little when I was in _Paris_.”

“I can translate. Give me a moment.” Llewellyn walked to the nearest streetlight and flipped through his book. “Hm, this one is interesting. I’ll just—”

He scribbled a quick translation in the margins, much to George’s apparent chagrin. But really, the poem was too complex to translate word for word, and Llewellyn was writing in pencil, so it was fine. “Alright, I think I’ve got it.”

Dropping his voice to a softer tone, he recited:

“Your clear laughter radiates  
On the bright scarlet landscapes  
That are carved with life’s troubling price.

Can you towards hopeful calm  
Unfurl like a leaf of palm  
My heart that is encased with ice!”

Llewellyn shut the book and glanced at his friend expectantly.

“That’s—” George cut himself off, clearing his throat. “Um, this Nelligan certainly has a way with words.”

“Hm, yes he was only 19 when he wrote this. Shortly before his family had him admitted.” Llewellyn scratched the side of his face. “But I don’t think he’s insane—or at least, his poetry is very relatable.”

“Watts are you—” George was looking at him with his brow furrowed in concern. “Is something troubling you?”

“Mmm nope, I’m fine.”

On instinct, Llewellyn started walking again.

George kept pace with him. Wringing his hands awkwardly, he said, “I’m sorry if I was overstepping.”

“You weren’t.” Llewellyn took a breath and held it for a second. “I suppose I’m somewhat anxious. I had to cancel plans with Jack, and it wasn’t the first time I’ve let him down recently.”

“How so?”

“Do you ever get the sense that you just can’t measure up?” Llewellyn sighed, hunching deeper with his hands in his coat pockets. “I’ve never entertained a courtship before, and Jack is—he said he loved me and I couldn’t—I can’t—”

He slapped a hand over his mouth. _What was he saying?_ He groaned out, “I’m clearly delirious from the lack of sleep, please forget I said anything.”

“What? Why?” George’s voice came out overly excited and pitchy.

“I should stop talking.”

George made a deliberate show of glancing around them. There weren’t any passers-by on their side of the street, and the usual city soundscape covered up their illicit conversation. “No one’s listening to us.”

“I mean,” Llewellyn gestured between the two of them. “I don’t want to subject you to my strange, unfortunate ramblings. In fact, I can make my way from here, so you don’t have to—accompany me.”

“It isn’t strange.” George said seriously. “It’s not a bother at all, and quite the opposite I’d say. I’m glad you feel you can, uh, open up.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t mind if it happened more often.”

Struck speechless, Llewellyn walked next to his friend and considered his kind words.

When he worked out what to say, he spoke into his coat collar, staring at the ground in front of him. “Jack always knows just the thing to say, and I want—he deserves all the best. When he said he loved me, I panicked and… I’m ashamed to say I ran away.”

“Have you talked about it? With him I mean.”

“No, not really.” Llewellyn raked his fingers over his stubble, wincing when a fingernail caught and left a mark. “If I don’t acknowledge it, I don’t need to disappoint him again.” As soon as he spoke the words, he realized how illogical it was. “I know it doesn’t make sense.”

George didn’t miss a beat. “I understand you perfectly.”

Llewellyn looked at him with renewed hope. “George, I take it you’ve had several lovers before.”

Face flushing, George sputtered incoherently. Llewellyn continued his thought, “It follows that you’d have skills and insight into relationships and love. So what should I do? Do I tell Jack how I feel, warts and all, or do I avoid it, so I don’t cause him further pain?”

“Well, I’m not sure I’m so skilled in the art of love.” George admitted with a grin. “But you know, someone quite wise once told me something, and I’ve never forgotten it.”

Too focused on the discussion, Llewellyn had stopped in the middle of the street, watching George’s soft eyes piercing straight to the heart of him.

George patted Llewellyn’s shoulder. “We spend our whole lives holding onto what we have. We fear losing what we have as much as dying. But without loss, there is no change, and without change, there is no…?”

“Life.” Llewellyn offered. “So even though change is terrifying, it’s necessary.”

“And worthwhile.”

“Oof.” Llewellyn huffed out a breath, letting the tension out of his chest. “Whoever told you that is indeed a wise person.”

“…Are you joking?”

“Hm?”

“You told me that Watts! Remember when I asked you for advice about moving to Paris with Nina?”

“Mmm… nope.”

“Unbelievable!”

\---

“I brought you something.”

“Oh? Is it a new sauce pan?”

Llewellyn looked over his shoulder. Jack’s face was playful; he was only teasing about the saucepan Llewellyn had burnt beyond all recognition.

“It is not a saucepan.” Llewellyn tweaked an eyebrow. “Perhaps you don’t want a gift after all—”

“No, no, I definitely want it, whatever it is.” Jack grinned at him. He was wiping down the dining table, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his biceps. “I like gifts.”

Feeling his face flush, Llewellyn turned his attention back onto the sink and the dishes he was washing. “My hands are otherwise occupied, but you’ll find it in my coat pocket. It isn’t wrapped or anything.”

Llewellyn finished rinsing the stock pot, balancing it precariously on the pile of clean dishes. He was too nervous to watch Jack, to see his reaction to the inscription—

“Oh, you remembered!” Jack called out. “And you got it signed by the man himself.”

“There’s a—there’s something at the back.”

Jack flipped the pages, and read aloud, “When wind and winter harden all the loveless land, it will whisper of the garden…” Jack let out a breathy sound. “You will understand.”

His heart hammering in his chest, Llewellyn scrubbed hard at the grease at the bottom of the roasting pan. The poem was the wrong choice; but he couldn’t think of another way to put his feelings in words. He had spent so long obsessing over it, and he had botched it anyways.

“At this rate, you’ll scrub a hole through it.” Jack suddenly appeared at his back, close but not touching.

Llewellyn stilled his hands, his fingers numb and prune-y. He looked in the lukewarm washbasin—the gleaming metal of the pan winked back at him. “I’m sorry.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “The other night, when I showed up uninvited and ran off, like a coward—”

“Wait, let me go first.” Jack’s hand pressed into the small of his back. “It was my fault. I knew you were already nervous, and then I sprung that on you without warning. I understand why you reacted like that.”

Turning his head so Jack could hear him, Llewellyn nodded. “I just didn’t know what to say.”

“I know.” Jack cupped Llewellyn’s face in his hand, but Llewellyn kept his eyes fixed on his open shirt collar. “It’s not you. I have a tendency … I want too much, too fast. I’ve been told it’s suffocating. I didn’t mean to—” Jack sighed, stepping back slightly. “I understand if you want to slow things down or … take some space.”

“What?! Why?”

“I’m just tying to make things easier.”

“How does this make it easier?”

“You’re the one who wants this!”

Llewellyn was holding the counter behind him in a death grip. He felt completely unmoored and tossed about in the waves of this conversation. He thought he was prepared for rejection. _Clearly that was a lie_.

Llewellyn reached for Jack’s arm, held him so he wouldn’t leave before he got his thoughts out. “I don’t want space, not with you, not when I’m still—"

Llewellyn glanced up at Jack’s chestnut hair, his summertime freckles, his kind eyes. “I’m not sure what my feelings are. Even if I did, I’m not sure I could form them into words. But I know that being with you—it’s not suffocating. It’s the opposite of suffocating. It’s like I’ve lived my whole life tangled up with a rope around my neck, and with you I can finally _breathe_.”

In one move, Jack closed the distance between them. The kiss was everything. Jack held him so sweetly and Llewellyn closed his eyes and appreciated the moment. He only pulled away when he needed air.

“So what,” Jack ran his thumb over Llewellyn’s prickly chin. “Was the deal with the breakup poetry?”

“It was supposed to be romantic.”

“What about the loveless, barren winter garden?”

“Gardens grow again.” Llewellyn sighed happily as Jack kissed along the edge of his jawline, then down his neck. “I just need a bit of time. A few more weeks to sort it out, then I’ll tell you. How I feel, I mean.”

Unknotting the tie at Llewellyn’s collar, Jack smiled fondly. “It’s no rush.”

“I don't want to cheapen the words. Not that I think that you're—uh I don't know, I'm no good with this." Llewellyn had learned so many languages, and still words failed him now.

“You know, there are other ways people show each other their feelings.” Jack kissed his exposed collar again. “Intimate suppers, thoughtful gifts, those _sounds_ you make when I kiss you.”

The sounds he made were involuntary, but Llewellyn was very intentional in teasing Jack. “Washing dishes is also a sign of affection. I know you care _deeply_ about the state of your pots and pans.”

“Yes, you were helpful with that.” Jack untied the apron from around Llewellyn’s waist.

“Shall I finish the job?”

“The dishes can wait.” Jack guided him towards the bedroom. “Unlike some things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems referenced are Émile Nelligan's "Rêve enclos" and Oscar Wilde's "To My Wife". I translated the verses from Nelligan, and I love the poem, so here it is in full:
> 
> Enfermons-nous mélancoliques  
> Dans le frisson tiède des chambres,  
> Où les pots de fleurs des septembres  
> Parfument comme des reliques.
> 
> Tes cheveux rappellent les ambres  
> Du chef des vierges catholiques  
> Aux vieux tableaux des basiliques,  
> Sur les ors charnels de tes membres.
> 
> Ton clair rire d'émail éclate  
> Sur le vif écrin écarlate  
> Où s'incrusta l'ennui de vivre.
> 
> Ah ! puisses-tu vers l'espoir calme  
> Faire surgir comme une palme  
> Mon coeur cristallisé de givre !


End file.
